


Milk and Missing Things.

by faithvegas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithvegas/pseuds/faithvegas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John misses Sherlock and buys milk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and Missing Things.

John takes a moment to breathe.  
  
He has to do this every so often. Stop and think about breathing.  
  
He has to do this because. Well. Because his best friend is dead.  
  
Jumped from the roof of a building, falling, falling, fell. Hit the ground, split his head open, cracked his neck. Dead.  
  
The way he fell, like he was reaching for something, trying to save himself, regretting the decision that he’d made.  
  
John feels sick.  
  
And why can’t he just _stop_. Why does he have to keep going like this? To keep thinking about him day and night, months at a time.  
  
More importantly why won’t _he_ —why won’t _Sherlock_ stop this?  
  
Why can’t he just get back into his body, get back in and climb up and out of the ground, because he’s _Sherlock_. There’s nothing, John is _convinced that there is nothing_ that he can’t figure out. He should be able to figure this out.  
  
John thinks momentarily about the way they ran through the streets of London, cuffed together and hearts beating in their throats, and in each other’s hands. He wants to remember these things fondly, but can only think of the circumstances from which they were running.  
  
And he wanted so badly for Sherlock to analyze him more—or if he had, to _do something about it_. To say something about the way he was always so impressed by Sherlock’s inherent ability to observe.  To mention the way John looked at him. To do _something_ to show that he at the very least knew something was happening.  
  
But no. Nothing.  
  
John spent days reading over his own entries, he watched as the counter slowed to a near stop over the months that it took for Sherlock’s hype to die out. He would close his eyes and hear his voice, taste the thick smell of nicotine that followed him everywhere, despite him not having actually smoked in months.  
  
He goes out for milk, drags his feet down the steps, past Mrs. Hudson, down to hail a cab. He misses the body parts in the fridge, the yelling at the television, the violin. He misses it all.  
  
For just over a year, his life was exciting. He needed nothing but to be with Sherlock, to embrace his life and the way he went about doing things.  
  
And. And the way it ended. The way Sherlock was so torn down, treated so poorly, name dragged through the mud like he had done something to deserve that. He never deserved that.  
  
John walks through the store, cradling the jug of milk close to his chest. He’s constantly searching for something to hold on to, to keep him grounded. He’s almost on autopilot as he walks through the self checkout and back out to the street where he hails another cab.  
  
He breathes in the stale London air, mundane and nothing like it was before.  
  
He watches car and pedestrian pass by the window as the cab makes its way to 221B. He keeps hoping for something exciting to happen, but he knows he would play no part in it even if it didn’t.  
  
Once he steps out of the cab, tossing a few pounds at the cabbie and closes the door, the plastic shopping bag tears, dropping the milk onto the cold cement, spilling it across the ground and dripping off into the gutter.  
  
“Fuck,” he sighs, picking up the broken plastic bits of the bottle. He looks up, feeling tears well up at the rims of his eyes, trying desperately to will them back down.  
  
John opens the door and flicks his wrist at Mrs. Hudson.  
  
“John,” she says, frantic and a little out of breath, “John, I need to speak with you—”  
  
“Really, Mrs. Hudson, I can’t right now. It’s not been a very good day.” He says as he steps up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson follows close behind him, almost stepping on his heels.  
  
“But John, this is _important_ —”  
  
“Mrs. Hudson, please,” he breathes as he opens the door to his flat. “I just can’t right now.”  
  
He walks in and smells the tobacco in the air, and becomes mildly frustrated when Mrs. Hudson follows him inside.  
  
“John, _look_.” She says, gripping his shoulders firmly and pointing him towards the wall.  
  
John can feel his throat go dry, his entire body tense up, and he is suddenly so hyperaware of everything he feels like he may vomit.  
  
“John, I asked you ages ago if you would bring me a pen and paper,” Sherlock says from where he is laying on the couch, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest. He lifts his lids and looks at John gently through lashes and bags and everything John has missed for so long, “please.” He says soft and warm and John stares for a moment.  
  
“Um—yeah—” he chokes, and makes a quick movement towards the desk to grab a pen and paper. He places them in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. “Here,” he says quietly.  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, and everything feels surreal. “I’ve missed you, John.” He says very flatly. John can feel his stomach turn in knots as he tries to keep his balance.  
  
“I’ve missed you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaa this is my first time writing Sherlock fic oh my God aaaaaaa


End file.
